On Translation||Qian Zhongshu: Lin Shu's Translations

Translation Pedagogy and Research

 September 12, 2024 06:02 Beijing

Lin Shu's Translations

Qian Zhongshu

        The Han dynasty philologist Xu Shen left an exegetical note on translation that contains profound implications. In the 26th character under the "mouth" radical in Shuowen Jiezi (Explaining Graphs and Analyzing Characters): "囮 (é), translation. Derived from '口' (mouth) with '化' (transmutation) as phonetic. Bird-catchers tie live birds to entice others, hence called '囮', pronounced like '譌' (distortion)." Since the Southern Tang period, philologists have interpreted "translation" as "mediating the languages of barbarians and birds-and-beasts," akin to the "lure" deployed by avian mediaries towards fowl. The characters "譌," "讹," "化," and "囮" share etymological roots. These interconnected meanings of "translation," "enticement," "mediation," "distortion," and "transmutation" form what students of poetic diction term "manifold meaning" - collectively revealing translation's potential efficacy, unavoidable defects, and ultimate aspirations. The supreme criterion of literary translation is "transmutation." When a work transitions between languages without betraying the awkwardness of linguistic divergence while preserving its original flavor intact, it may be said to have entered the "transmutative realm." Seventeenth-century admirers likened such accomplished translations to "the transmigration of souls" - the bodily vessel transformed, yet the spiritual essence remaining unaltered. In other words, a translation should be so faithful to the original that it reads not as derivative, for no original work ever reads like a translation. Yet inevitable distances persist between languages, between a translator's comprehension/style and the original's content/form, and even between the translator's understanding and expressive capacity. To traverse these chasms step by step, arriving safely in another linguistic realm, constitutes an arduous journey fraught with perils that inevitably incur losses or damages. Thus, translations always manifest "distortion" - the Western adage "Traduttore traditore" (The translator is a traitor) finds its counterpart in the Chinese conception of "translation as textile-reversal." The Song dynasty monk Zanning's Biographies of Eminent Monks observes: "To translate resembles turning brocade inside out - both sides bear floral patterns, yet their orientations differ." This metaphor recalls Don Quixote's remark that reading translations is like viewing Flemish tapestries from the wrong side. The notions of "mediation" and "enticement" naturally illustrate translation's role in cultural exchange. As matchmaker and liaison officer, it introduces foreign works and kindles affection for them, thus establishing "literary bonds" between nations.

        Since complete "transmutation" remains an unattainable ideal, and certain degrees of "distortion" prove unavoidable, the concepts of "mediation" and "enticement" acquire new significance. Translation, originally meant to spare readers the trouble of learning foreign languages, paradoxically evolves into an inducement for studying them. It arouses curiosity about originals, offering mere tantalizing glimpses that inflame appetites without providing satiety. Readers often feel that perusing translations resembles viewing flowers through mist, lacking the vivid immediacy of engaging originals. Goethe once compared translators contemptuously to vulgar matchmakers (Uebelsetzer sind als geschaftige Kuppler anzusehen) - known in Chinese as "horse-leaders" - who half-veil their charges, inflaming imaginations about their concealed beauty. To verify these imaginings and lift the beguiling veil, one must confront the original text. Thus, the ultimate purpose of fine translations is self-annihilation: having transported us to the original's shore, we cast aside the vessel upon arrival. Overconfident translators might presume their renditions render originals superfluous, yet readers who attain mastery of source languages often ungratefully discard these painstaking surrogates. Paradoxically, inferior translations achieve true obliteration of originals. Clumsy renditions unconsciously repel readers, who abandon both translation and original in disgust. Such versions serve not as bridges but as barriers, eradicating all potential for direct engagement with the source text while undermining both the reader's interest and the original's reputation. The 17th-century French Abbé de Marolles' translation of Martial's Epigrams - mockingly retitled Epigrams Against Martial by contemporaries - stands as a classic exemplar. Most readers could supplement this with examples from their own reading experience.

  The "mediary" function of Lin Shu's translations has become an established fact in literary history. His works undoubtedly exerted the Goethean "mediary" influence upon certain readers, guiding them towards direct engagement with the original texts. My own fascination with foreign languages was kindled precisely through reading his translations. The two small cases of Lin Shu's Translated Novels Collection published by the Commercial Press constituted a major discovery in my eleventh or twelfth year, leading me into a new realm beyond the worlds of Water Margin, Journey to the West, and Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio. Though I had previously read Liang Qichao's translation of Fifteen Young Heroes and Zhou Guisheng's detective novels, they all struck me as tedious. It was through Lin's translations that I first realized the enchanting power of Western fiction. I devoured his renderings of Haggard, Irving, Scott, and Dickens with insatiable appetite. Should I attempt to trace any consciously perceived motivation for my English studies in those days, one would certainly be the desire to someday voraciously consume all of Haggard's adventure novels and their ilk. Forty years ago in my provincial hometown, where children had neither wildlife films to watch nor zoos to visit—only itinerant performers with monkey shows or scabrous camels selling medicinal herbs—the thrills that modern children derive from nature documentaries and zoo visits had to be sought in adventure novels. Through repeated readings, however, doubts gradually emerged regarding Lin's translations. One particular instance remains vividly etched in my memory. The climactic crocodile-lion battle in Chapter V of Haggard's She, deliberately crafted to thrill juvenile readers with breathless suspense, appears in Lin's version as follows:

  "Yet the lion's hind claws had already gripped the crocodile's neck, extracting it as one removes a glove. Moments later, the lion bowed its head over the crocodile's body emitting strange noises, while the crocodile tilted its teeth still embedded in the lion's thigh. The lion's belly, bitten by the crocodile, was nearly torn asunder. Such combat I had never witnessed in all my days."

  How could a lion's paw sink into a crocodile's neck "like removing a glove"? If the crocodile's teeth were "embedded in the lion's thigh," how could it simultaneously "bite the lion's belly"—a physiological impossibility? These perplexities defied both my childish reasoning and adult explanations. Moreover, what became of this ferocious struggle? Who emerged victorious, or did both perish? The fate of these beasts concerned me more than the protagonists' sentimental woes. The text's ambiguous conclusion left me itching with unsatisfied curiosity, desperate to know whether the original handled the matter with similar obscurity. When I first gained access to original texts, I invariably sought out works Lin had translated. As my reading proficiency increased and critical censures of Lin's "error-riddled" versions reached my ears, I abandoned them with disdain, relegating them to the sedimentary layers of my literary past.

  Recently, chancing upon a Lin translation, I was surprised to find its charm undiminished. Not only did I complete it, but proceeded to revisit most of his corpus, discovering many worth rereading despite ubiquitous omissions and mistranslations. Attempting comparative reading with later—doubtless more "faithful"—versions of works like Montesquieu or Dickens, I paradoxically preferred the originals. This curious phenomenon merits contemplation. While some maintain that the worse the translation, the greater the amusement in detecting the translator's surrealistic flights of fancy—filling comprehension gaps with wild conjectures, creating something from nothing, calling deer horses—my renewed interest in Lin's works stems not from schadenfreude. Indeed, the infidelities or "distortions" in Lin's translations cannot be wholly attributed to his assistants' linguistic limitations. Let us examine two illustrative examples.

  Chapter XVII of The Unofficial History of Nicholas Nickleby depicts the fashion shop's head milliner, Miss Knag, nearly bursting with rage upon being called "an old woman." Returning disheveled to the workroom, she vents her jealous fury on the beautiful Miss Code, with her underlings joining the fray. Lin's version contains the following passage:

"Nagg...began with laughter that ended in tears, her sobs seeming to carry a melodic strain. She cried: 'Alas! For fifteen years in this establishment, all have praised me as a fresh blossom of beauty' — here she stamped her left foot — 'Heavens above!' Then stamped her right foot — 'Heavens above! Never in these fifteen years have I suffered such indignity. Now this sly vixen dares confront me, shaming me to the trembling of my liver and intestines!'"

This truly resembles a singing-and-dancing farce, provoking readers to laughter. Upon consulting Dickens' original text (Chapter 18), however, we find considerable disappointment. Rendering it in a style approximating Lin Shu's translation, the passage would roughly read:

"Miss Nagg first laughed hysterically then burst into tears, her demeanor most pitiful and moving. She exclaimed: 'For fifteen years, I have brought no small glory to this establishment. By heaven's grace' — here she violently stamped her left foot, then her right, stamping as she spoke — 'Never have I endured a day's humiliation. How dare this wench betray me today! Her schemes are utterly contemptible! Her conduct shames all who know propriety. I loathe her, I despise her, yet my heart is wounded! My heart is grievously wounded!'"

The "melodic strain" with its rhyming cadence constitutes Lin Shu's creative embellishment, unlikely to stem from his assistants' misinterpretation. Clearly finding Dickens' description insufficiently vivid, he applied rich coloration, amplifying the characters' comic effect. While critics recognize Lin Shu's capacity to convey Dickensian wit, this example reveals he frequently interjected his own jests to enhance the original humor. Consider another instance from The Unofficial History of Nicholas Nickleby (Chapter 34 in the original):

"Mr. Squeers...said to old Wackford: 'This is my son, young Wackford...Observe his corpulence — so extreme that his garments cannot contain him. His flesh' — here he pressed the boy's head and prodded various parts of his body — 'is all meat, tough and firm. Let me attempt to pinch his skin' — as Mr. Squeers pinched, young Wackford began wailing, rubbing his flesh and crying: 'Father, you torment me!' Mr. Squeers continued: 'He's not yet full. When satiated, his concentrated strength and expanded girth could not be contained by tiled houses...Note how his tears contain mutton fat — proof of sufficient feeding.'"

This passage demonstrates equally spirited translation. However, Dickens originally describes Squeers merely "prodding" his son, mentions only the boy's postprandial immobility, and refers to tearful "oiliness." Lin Shu's additions — "pressed the boy's head," "concentrated strength," "mutton fat from sufficient feeding" — constitute gilding the lily. Notably, Dickens' young Wackford simply "wailed and rubbed his flesh" without speech. The plaintive "Father, you torment me!" is Lin Shu's interpolation, creating dramatic balance where the original had only Squeers' monologue. In other words, Lin Shu deemed the original imperfect, supplementing here and embellishing there to render descriptions more concrete and scenes more vibrant — reminiscent of Sima Qian's editorial enhancements in Records of the Grand Historian. As an author himself aspiring to adopt Haggard and Dickens' techniques, Lin Shu couldn't resist seizing the pen when encountering what he considered原作者's weaknesses. Translationally speaking, this constitutes "distortion." Though often improved through such alterations, the essential character becomes transformed — and not all amendments prove equally felicitous. While the preceding example shows successful editing, the earlier Nagg episode raises issues. Though Nagg is indeed comic and her tantrum partially affected, were she to "sing" her complaints tunelessly, the pretense would become obvious, undermining dramatic tension. As Li Zhi critiqued the examination scene in The Story of the Lute: "Too theatrical! Unconvincing!" adding: "Though theatrical, it must resemble truth; whereas truth need not fear resembling theater." Lin Shu's exaggerated revisions, while effective as comic interludes, damage psychological verisimilitude — precisely exemplifying "Too theatrical! Unconvincing!"

It has long been recognized that Lin Shu's translations abridge original texts, yet few have noted his equally frequent textual augmentations as exemplified above. Such amplifications abound in his comparatively meticulous early translations, particularly those of Dickens and Irving. At times he adds metaphors to enhance descriptive charm, as seen in The Sketch Book's "Rip Van Winkle":
"...while dullards stumbled over characters, the schoolmaster would whip them to assist their leaping across chasms of words."

The original merely approximates Du Fu's poetic notion of "stumbling over difficult characters" in Casual Compositions, devoid of this striking image of "leaping across chasms." Elsewhere, explanatory commentaries are interpolated to clarify implications, as in Chapter 2 of Oliver Twist:
"When physicians encounter nameless dead infants, they declare: 'Upon dissection, we find naught within.' The Unofficial Chronicler remarks: 'The infant perishes precisely from emptiness within! Had there been substance, how could death ensue?'" The original parenthetical phrase "as if this were not a lie" becomes in classical Chinese: "This statement is no falsehood." While such interpolations are inadmissible as translation, from rhetorical or compositional perspectives they often stimulate intellectual engagement. Lin Shu's reiterated claims that foreign novels "everywhere conform to Ancient-Style Prose principles of composition" and that "the mental processes of literati across Europe and Asia show no fundamental divergence" — his comparative analyses of narrative techniques in Zuo's Commentary, Records of the Grand Historian, Dickens and Cervantes — cannot be dismissed as empty rhetoric. Consciously applying traditional commentary techniques like "rhythmic suspension," "narrative undulation," "dragon-eye-dotting highlights" and "cheek-whisker embellishments," he molds translations to conform to classical prose aesthetics. Any writerly translator inevitably risks Lin's besetting temptation: assuming the role of authorial "candid friend" under self-imposed obligations of alchemical transmutation, thereby reducing translation to parasitic patchwork writing. Early translation histories across nations reveal Lin's spiritual brethren. Proper understanding of translation's nature and rigorous execution of its duties would require writer-translators to exercise self-restraint, perhaps even scorn Lin's susceptibility to temptation. Yet, as burdened adults may occasionally envy childish spontaneity, I suspect some translators secretly covet Lin's audacious liberties.

The aforementioned Squeers' remark: "You need but observe his corpulence, reaching the point where his garments cannot contain it," should properly read "reaching the point where his garments cannot contain him" or "until incapable of being contained by his garments." Such syntactical inversions and omissions permeate Lin's translations, not wholly attributable to typographical errors. Lin's celebrated translation velocity — astonishing yet pride-inducing — exacts its price beyond lax syntax and verbose diction through frequent textual lacunae. Consider the earlier crocodile episode from She: "The crocodile also tilted its teeth, still embedded in the lion's thigh" (following original punctuation). Contextual reconstruction suggests a missing "body" character: "The crocodile tilted its body, teeth still embedded in the lion's thigh." Similarly, in La Dame aux Camélias: "I found my resentment towards Marguerite's mockery gradually being pushed further away by growing affection," where "gradually" constitutes obvious redundancy — perhaps an unresolved revision from "gradually pushed further" to "increasingly pushed further." As for characteristically awkward constructions like: "Yet Marguerite's daytime receptions never lacked a dozen guests" (La Dame aux Camélias); "What I ask of you is simply to show courtesy to this elder" (Chapter 4 of Joan Haste); "Pondering appropriate action, I waited long here, concluding that stealthy horse theft offered better escape" (Accounts of Captured Soldiers in the Grand Arabic Palace) — these transcend mere textual errors to enter Liu Zhiji's realm of "Character Omission" and "Textual Refinement" (See Generalities on Historiography: "Narrative" chapter in inner volumes, "Textual Refinement" in outer volumes). While typographical errors exist, manuscript palaeography often proves culpable. The most striking example remains Quaritch, the male protagonist in Colonel Quaritch, V.C. — appearing hundreds of times as "Claw-Standing Branch" (爪立支) where "Melon-Standing Branch" (瓜立支) was clearly intended, the confusion arising from cursive script resemblance. Let me transcribe a revelatory 1914 letter from Yun Shujiong (editor-in-chief of Fiction Monthly 1912-1917) to my father, dated October 29: "Recently this Master [Lin] sold four stories of Records of Mournful Whispers to our magazine. Capitalizing on his fame, we published them despite numerous neologisms: 'somersault' rendered as 'tumbling somersault,' 'kitchen smoke' as 'silk smoke.' Presumptuously I emended them. Among Marquis Lin's works, these rank poorest!" Beyond exposing Lin's hasty carelessness — leaving even glaring neologisms uncorrected — this unconsciously reveals periodical editors' dual stance towards celebrated contributors.

　　Regarding the issue of "distortion" (e), critics have traditionally treated Lin Shu with leniency while reproaching his assistants severely. Lin himself had long absolved his responsibility: "Being unversed in Western languages, I merely transcribe what is dictated; any errors stem from ignorance" (Preface to The Tale of Princess Xiliya). Is this not tantamount to pleading "ignorantia legis neminem excusat"? If my preceding arguments hold water, the "distortions" in Lin's translations cannot be wholly imputed to his assistants, while the most characteristic elements of these distortions precisely originate from Lin's willful manipulation. Paradoxically, it is these very distortions that have lent Lin's translations certain preservative qualities, preventing their complete obsolescence. Consider Wei Yi's independent translation of Dickens' A Tale of Two Cities (serialized in The Yongyan Journal Vol.1 No.13 onwards), which exhibits only the expurgative "distortions" common to Lin-Wei collaborations, but lacks the amplificatory "distortions". Certain passages in Lin's translations reveal errors unlikely to stem from assistants' incompetence, but rather from the translator's own impetuous pen, failing to grasp the original rhetorical subtleties.

Take the celebrated letter from Fanny Squeers in Chapter 14 (originally Chapter 15) of The Unofficial History of Nicholas Nickleby, which Lin renders without his customary emphatic circles indicating appreciation: "Sir: My father bids me write to you. The doctors say his leg must be severed, his wrist cannot write, hence he commands me to write." The gratuitous insertion of "wrist" constitutes pure superfluity! To readers of the original, Dickens' syntax here ("the doctors considering it doubtful whether he will ever recover the use of his legs which prevents his holding a pen") virtually precludes any possibility of adding "wrist" or "hand". Mrs. Gaskell, whom Dickens admired, includes a similar jest in her novels: an old gentleman writes on behalf of his wife, explaining "she being indisposed with sprained ankle, which quite incapacitated her from holding pen". A Tang dynasty anecdote resonates here: "When Li Anqi... examined examination papers commenting 'The calligraphy falters,' the candidate pleaded 'I fell from horseback yesterday and injured my foot.' Li retorted: 'What does a damaged foot have to do with fine penmanship?'" (Extensive Records of the Taiping Era Vol.250 quoting Accounts from Court and Country). Had Lin Shu been more deliberate, he might have recalled this precedent, perhaps rendering it as "his leg must be severed, rendering writing impossible" or "his shank remains unhealed, no longer able to grasp the brush"—complete with circles and annotations.

Undoubtedly, the assistants' foreign language proficiency was mediocre, their preparation often inadequate. Faced with impromptu dictation to this swift pen that "transcribes as sounded," devoid of pauses for reflection, errors became inevitable. Haste bred mistakes: the dictater might misread or misspeak, the transcriber mishear or miswrite, with subsequent proofreading conspicuously absent from the assistants' duties. Under such circumstances, avoiding "distortions" would have been miraculous. However, those who harshly judge Lin's collaborators often overlook the peculiar demands of the translator's craft. In literary criticism, one may produce cogent analyses without comprehending every word, phrase, or even minor chapters—no need to profess ignorance of particular passages to demonstrate intellectual honesty. Translation permits no such indulgences. Not a single character may glide by unobstructed; no difficulty can be circumvented. What reads smoothly in the original becomes treacherous in translation, with problems often insoluble by mere dictionary consultation. Evasion through omission constitutes willful "distortion"; obstinate misinterpretation amounts to reckless "distortion". Though branded as "traitors," translators rarely erect smokescreens to conceal their incomprehension.

Consider the case of the Cheeryble brothers in Chapter 35 of The Unofficial History described as "German-merchants," which Lin renders in Chapter 34 as "German merchant magnates"—a common interpretation, unless subjected to closer scrutiny. Dickens would never cast Germans as saviors of English society, while in nineteenth-century British novels depicting domestic life, foreign characters with outlandish speech and attire served solely as comic relief. The Cheerybles' surname and manners being quintessentially English, the seemingly ordinary designation here carries an archaic meaning: not "German merchant magnates" but "import-export merchants trading with Germany." In critical essays about the novel, our ignorance might remain undetected provided we refrain from misinterpreting Dickens as a Germanophile. In translation, such safety vanishes.

　　Therefore, many "corruptions" in Lin Shu's collaborative translations remain forgivable. What astonishes me are those annotations and explanations they instructed Lin Shu to append—these must have undergone some investigation. Let me cite two most extraordinary examples. Chapter 5 of The Black Prince's Southern Expedition records: "He addressed me as 'Uvrier' (note: French for 'worker') from horseback, gesturing for me to open the double gates. As I lifted the latch, he uttered: 'Mercie' (note: irregular English)." Chapter 51 of The Story of a Filial Daughter states: "Barras remarked: 'You excel at refined jests while being versed in zoology. How so? You must be the supreme Buffoon!' The English term 'Buffoon' denotes a jester, whereas 'Bufon' refers to a toad. Originally addressing Guelber as 'Buffoon' (comic), the blurred articulation transformed it into 'Bufon' (toad)." While confusing "ouvre" (open) with "ouvrier" (worker) in French may be overlooked, how could "merci" (thank you), also a French expression, be annotated as "irregular English"? The surname of the French zoologist Buffon coincidentally resembles the word "bufo" (toad) in Latin and Italian. Though ignorance of Buffon the scientist is pardonable, why deliberately distort his surname to conflate with amphibian terminology, thereby transforming the eminent French zoologist into a Roman batrachian? In A Midsummer Night's Dream Act III Scene 1, when a character is magically transformed into an ass-headed figure, his companion exclaims: "Thou art translated!" This Shakespearean line could aptly apply to the present case.

Lin Shu commenced his translation career at the age of forty-four or forty-five aboard a boat touring Shigu Mountain. Over nearly three decades until his demise, he translated over 170 works, predominantly novels. Legend suggests he might have even attempted translating the Christian Bible. Based on my comprehensive survey, his translation career distinctly divides into two periods, with The Sorrows of Parting Skies completed in the "third month of Guichou year" (1913) serving as the watershed. Prior to this, roughly seventy to eighty percent of Lin's translations exhibit striking vitality; thereafter, his brushwork gradually declined—colors turned ashen, vigor slackened, wearying his readers. This deterioration cannot be attributed to inferior source texts in later years, for his corpus included such masterpieces as Cervantes' Don Quixote and Montesquieu's Lettres persanes. Tragically rendered through the lethargic brush of Lin past sixty, these works resembled the soporific theological treatises mocked in Lettres persanes, rivaling sedatives in inducing drowsiness. The cruel contrast between Cervantes' vigorous, flowing original and Lin's lifeless, convoluted rendition, between Montesquieu's "divine pen" (as praised in the preface to Lettres persanes, The Eastern Miscellany Vol.12 No.9) and Lin's blunted style, becomes painfully evident. Curiously, even the same Haggard's works—like The Iron Casket translated later—prove more tedious than any of his earlier renditions. Yuan Mei's poetic diagnosis of "aged mastery in decline" (from Collected Poems from the Small Granary Studio, Vol.2; Sequel to Poetic Grades: Discernment and Suiyuan Poetry Talks, Vol.1) perfectly encapsulates late Lin's translations: an old hand, unwilling or unable to exert effort, relying on accumulated dexterity to敷衍塞责.

Early translations conjure an image of Lin Shu brimming with focused energy, ever eager to showcase his literary craftsmanship. The later works, however, evoke a weary elder mechanically driving a blunted quill with fatigued fingers to meet the "thousand words per hour" quota. No longer appreciating or even interest-stricken by his texts—save for the lure of manuscript fees—his translations became mere transactions at Lin's "mint," formally converting foreign literature into Chinese, yet essentially transforming cultural imports into domestic currency. This attitudinal shift manifests clearly in textual paratexts: early translations abound with prefaces, postscripts, introductory notes, explanatory "aims," translators' marginalia, critical commentaries, along with dedicatory poems and lyrics by himself or contemporaries. Though occasionally marred by pedantry and naivety, these supplements reveal solemn passion and intimate engagement—moments where his flying brush would pause to wipe away tears. In contrast, late editions drastically reduce such appurtenances. Dedicatory verses vanish; prefatory remarks like the "Translator's Note" in The Mirror of Filial Piety or exclamatory annotations ("How ridiculous!" "Utterly preposterous!" "Simply devastating!") in The Fiery Steed grow scarce. Even texts like The Golden Terrace Spring Dreams, set in Beijing and replete with Chinese folklore, fail to provoke commentary. The entire enterprise assumes an air of casualness, even indifference. If translation constitutes "literary karma," then Lin's later works truly embody his own titular phrase—Karmic Bonds in Icy Wilderness.

As a master of ancient-style prose, Lin Shu was praised by contemporaries like Zhao Xi in "Remembering Elder Weilu": "He recast the tales of myriad nations in Sima Qian and Ban Gu's mold" (Chen Yan's Anthology of Modern Poetry, Vol.18). Later critics perpetuated this claim, yet the term "ancient-style prose" (古文) demands clarification. In Chinese literary history, particularly during Ming and Qing dynasties, this denotes a specific, narrow tradition. Not all classical Chinese qualifies as "ancient-style prose," nor does it inherently oppose vernacular writing under certain conditions.

　　The term "Ancient-Style Prose" encompasses two dimensions. The first aspect, as elucidated by Lin Shu in prefaces to translations like Uncle Tom's Cabin, Ivanhoe, and David Copperfield, pertains to the "principles of composition" — namely narrative techniques such as "opening scenes," "foreshadowing," "transition," "climax," and "structural closure." From this perspective, vernacular works may indeed embody the "principles of Ancient-Style Prose composition." As early as Ming dynasty, Li Kaixian's Ci Xue records how classical prose masters like Tang Shunzhi and Wang Shenzhong equated Water Margin with Sima Qian's Records of the Grand Historian. Li Baoxun's Old Studio Notes preserves a rarely cited commentary: "Ruan Yuan extols The Unofficial History of the Literati, claiming its author channels Sima Qian's spirit of historical critique through veiled satire, achieving sixty to seventy percent of the Grand Historian's stylistic vigor. This work transcends mere fiction — even the prose masters of Song and Ming dynasties fall short of its brilliance." Lin Shu himself frequently juxtaposes Dream of the Red Chamber and Water Margin with historical classics in his prefaces. More significantly, he discovers foreign novels inherently conform to "principles of Ancient-Style Prose composition," requiring no stylistic transmutation.

　　However, the second aspect of "Ancient-Style Prose" — its linguistic purity — presents insurmountable constraints. The Tongcheng School patriarch Fang Bao's admonitions reveal the draconian linguistic prohibitions: "Exclude vernacular expressions, Wei-Jin ornate phrases, Han fu archaisms, poetic diction, and Southern Dynasties frivolities." Subsequent Tongcheng scholars further proscribed commentary styles, epistolary phrases, and critical idioms. This puritanical approach sought snow-like sterility rather than flame-like vitality in prose. Measured against these standards, Lin Shu's translated style violates his own proclaimed "Ancient-Style Prose" orthodoxy. For instance, Yuan Hongdao's phrase "cheap person" (bianyi ren) in Account of Solitary Hill draws Lin's censure in Essays from the Weilu Studio as "unfit for classical prose." Yet in his translation of The Unofficial History of Nicholas Nickleby (Chapter 29), we find: "allowing that man to take utmost advantage (占其便宜)." Similarly, while Lin's Principles of Compound Phrases derides "Resentful Silks and Sorrowful Gauze" as frivolous poetic compounding, his translation of Conan Doyle's novel bears precisely this title: Resentful Silks and Sorrowful Gauze.

　　Most revealing is Lin's confession in Sixteen Prohibitions: "In translating H. Rider Haggard's Colonel Quaritch, V.C., I inadvertently incorporated Buddhist terminology from Surangama Sutra into the preface — a regrettable contamination." This admission confirms his conscious segregation of translation practice from classical prose orthodoxy. Ironically, Fang Bao himself criticized late Ming prose for "novelistic contamination," while later Tongcheng masters erected taboos against fictional elements. How then could Lin translate vividly realistic novels without employing "contaminated" language? Thus we conclude: Lin Shu never employed "Ancient-Style Prose" for translation — indeed, such stylistic confinement would have paralyzed the translator's tongue.

Around 1931 or 1932, I once conversed with Mr. Chen Yan. Knowing my foreign language proficiency yet unaware of my specialization in foreign literature—assuming it must pertain to science or law—he sighed upon clarification: "Why seek literature overseas? Is our Chinese literature not superior enough?" Daring not argue, I parried with his own acquaintance: my interest in foreign literature kindled by Lin Shu's translations. Mr. Chen retorted: "This inversion would displease Qinnan. Having read his translations, you should advance to study his Ancient-Style Prose instead of foreign dalliance. Has Qinnan become 'the fisher who drives fish into deep waters'?" After a pause, he added: "Qinnan detests flattery for his translations and paintings. My birthday couplet praising his painting met rebuke, as did Kang Youwei's poem extolling his translations." I recalled Kang's verse—"Translation talents of our age: Yan and Lin"—but refrained from inquiry. Seven years later, Mr. Li Xuangong showed me Lin Weilu's correspondence, including this letter: "...On my seventieth birthday, Shiyi sent a couplet: 'Lectern honors the elder; Painter attains longevity'—not a word about my conduct or writings. His letter stated: 'You reject my eulogy,... thus I omit your virtues'".

This explained Mr. Chen's anecdote. Another letter mentioned Yan Fu: "...During Jidao's lifetime, he belittled me, even to my face." Remembering Kang's poem, I queried Mr. Li, who revealed: "Kang offended two men with one verse." Yan Fu, ever disdainful of Lin Shu, scoffed at the "translation talent" who knew no foreign script, feeling ashamed to be paired. As for Lin, two grievances festered. First, why praise translations over his prized Ancient-Style Prose in birthday verses—this inversion of priorities? Second, the forced rhyme in "twelfth侵" instead of "fourteenth盐" to accommodate "Yan and Lin" made Yan Fu the accidental protagonist. "How could An Shaoshan fail what Shi Siming grasped?" Such scholarly vanity, while comical, remains tolerable so long as it avoids venomous rivalry—a lighthearted scene in the "human comedy".

Lin Shu's aversion to being called "translation talent" finds context in Liu Yuxi's Tang-era remark: "Never deem translators unworthy of literary mastery"—betraying common prejudice against the craft. Even Xie Lingyun, the Jin dynasty poet-translator who collated the Mahaparinirvana Sutra, saw his linguistic achievements overshadowed by poetic fame. This cultural blindness transcends China. Lin, self-styled literary master, chafed at Kang's reduction to mere translator. Valuing Ancient-Style Prose as creative work over derivative translation aligns with artistic hierarchy—original works being more "authentic possessions". To gauge this disparity, consider Lin's self-assessment. His late-life epistolary boasts: "My regulated verse follows Su Dongpo and Chen Yuyi; quatrains mimic Jiang Kui and Shen Zhou, blended with Wang Anshi; pentasyllabic ancient verse emulates Han Yu; narrative poems imitate Du Fu—though I falter in extended ancient verse and regulated sequences."

Pride radiates through these claims of orthodox pedigree. Yet continues the revelation: "Meeting Shiyi in Beijing, we clasped hands as rumors dissolved like mist. At Bianyifang roast duck house, three hours of discourse ensued. Shiyi claimed my poetry rivals my prose—I vehemently disputed this for an hour! What knows this outsider of prose's profundity?... In the past six hundred years, none save Gui Youguang dare stand against me. Compared with my prose, my poetry is but dogs barking and donkeys braying."

How pitiable were Du Fu, Han Yu, Wang Anshi, and Su Shi—they all served as mere exemplars of "canine barks and asinine brays"! To elevate one domain of his own accomplishment, Lin Shu did not hesitate to disparage and even denigrate another. At this moment, I cannot recall a second instance of such self-deprecation. Though Lin Shu mentions in his preface to Selected Works of Gui Youguang that he had "humbly imitated" the narrative techniques of Zhang Zhennü's Posthumous Account while translating Oliver Twist, we may surmise he accorded translation even lower status than poetry. Suppose someone were to test him thus: "Indeed! Compared to your classical prose, your poetry truly resembles 'canine barks and asinine brays,' while your translations sound like the croaking of even lowlier creatures"—say, "croaking toads"—how might he respond? Would he embrace such a critic as his soulmate? Or would he flare up in vehement contention, leaping to defend both his poetry and translations? This experiment remains unattempted—perhaps because it proves unnecessary.